


One Inch of Love is One Inch of Ash

by hwe (plumroot)



Series: Love For Another More [3]
Category: iKON (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, China, M/M, absolutely historically inaccurate, opium kingpin! junhwe and desirable! donghyuk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 18:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13664865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plumroot/pseuds/hwe
Summary: "Never let your heart open with the spring flowers:One inch of love is one inch of ash."Untitled Poem II - Li Shangyin





	One Inch of Love is One Inch of Ash

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot is part of the 1930s verse of Love For Another More.

"Leave him."

       Donghyuk's cheek is pressed on the glossy lacquered nightstand, gold-lined blush pink peonies of inlaid mother of pearl against perfectly varnished obsidian rosewood.

       Junhwe commissioned a set from Paris for his sister, celebrating both her marriage and the opening of her fourth casino, but Donghyuk had given it one glance and fell in love with it. So, now, one nightstand resides with Jinhee in her house in Shanghai and the other, here, in Junhwe's bedroom in Canton. Donghyuk had once said this very nightstand was the prettiest piece of furniture he had ever seen.

       Silk robe draped languidly over his lithe form, flowing neck and porcelain collarbone, Donghyuk picks up his ring from the table and places it down again. Over and over, silence in the room punctuated by the clink of jade against polished wood, and the inhale and exhale of thick, silver smoke. Junhwe wonders if Donghyuk knows how well he suits deep crimson.

       Something tells him he does.

       "For who?" 

       Donghyuk's cheekbone is pushed slightly higher now, on the cusp of a dainty smile reserved only for the most expensive people. But the moment he holds his ring up to the yellow lamp, inspecting it like any other piece of jewellery, this expression quickly fades to be replaced with one of disinterest - the exact one powerful men all over the country had once fought for a chance to entertain.

       Those men have it all; money and jewels and cars and houses, the sun, moon, and stars laying at their feet. Open their mouths to be fed; spread their palms to receive. Yet, there is nothing quite as thrilling as desire; something you can't have but can still long for, a chase to have the adrenaline flowing, the blood rushing, a game where all this wealth and power might actually mean something.

       " _You_?"

       Donghyuk is that game. Was. He's engaged now.

       Junhwe takes a drag of his cigar, blows the smoke to the window. It's customary; Donghyuk hates the smell, the taste. But he will still put his tender mouth over Junhwe's, bury his face into the other's neck. He will still leave with the scent on his body, tangled in his hair, clothes, underneath the wet mist of magnolia. It feels somewhat triumphant.

       Donghyuk drops the ring on the table, and whines. It sounds like neither satisfaction nor boredom. He slowly rolls onto his back, graceful limbs in a delicious stretch across the span of the bed, bare toes sinking into the wrinkled satin. He sighs, staring blankly at the ornate ceiling. "And why would I do that?"

       "I love you."

       The air is stilted, stale. Donghyuk purses his lip, waiting for the next line, what will follow after. Something usually does. Nothing follows. He contemplates this silently. Junhwe's fingers tremble around his cigar, ash falls onto his dark trousers.

       "So?" Junhwe heard Donghyuk's voice for the first time at Canton's most luxurious and extravagant night club, The Red Door; amongst the glitz and glamour, in-house Russian orchestra, a voice so sugary and mellow, soft and airy, it sounded just like a dream. Into the microphone whispering sweet words, breath of an angel, the entire room wound effortlessly around his finger. Now, with words so cold and unfeeling, no pretty notes to soften, Junhwe somehow likes his voice even more. "So does he."

       Mr Lee had told Junhwe, with a fawning smile, that Donghyuk is the night club's most loved performer, with not only pleasant saccharine tones but looks so alluring the hearsay alone attracts visitors from all over the country, wanting even a mere glimpse of such heaven. When he led Donghyuk over from backstage, powdered nose and rusted rouge dusted lightly on his high cheeks, the performer refused to sit down at the table. He also refused Junhwe's offer of Cognac. Instead, he stared Junhwe straight in the eye.

       "My sister's husband became addicted to opium. When he died, he left her with his debt. She couldn't pay it back, so they raped her and took her son. She killed herself in spring."

       Junhwe apologized. Mr Lee slapped Donghyuk in the face, right there on the floor, in front of Junhwe and everyone else. Donghyuk gripped his cheek, eyes still and chin held high. Mr Lee got on his knees and apologized to Junhwe. Two nights after that, Mr Lee was ambushed in an alley near his home. When he eventually dragged himself out, screaming for help, there was a bloody stump where his right hand should have been.

       A week after that, Junhwe bought The Red Door and every night club from the same chain.

       That happened.

       Donghyuk sits up. Junhwe leaves his smoking cigar on the black crystal ashtray. As the smaller male approaches Junhwe the loose red robe glides off his slender, ivory shoulders, pooling like fresh, shiny blood at the foot of the huanghuali armchair.

       If it all comes down to one thing about Donghyuk, the single thing that arrests attention like moths hopelessly drawn to the same old flame, makes men spout impulsive promises to leave their wives for him, it is his flow of perfect gestures. Every movement, motion, however subtle, veiled in its own magic and mystery that one wishes so desperately they could understand.

       Donghyuk climbs onto Junhwe's lap, supple thighs chafing the stiff wool of the other's trousers. His pretty hands slip past the collar of Junhwe's white shirt, fingers curling around the back of his neck. After all this time, Junhwe still shudders at the touch.

       Maybe this is what it comes to, Junhwe realises, as he presses his lips onto Donghyuk’s collarbone. There is nothing quite as thrilling as desire; something Junhwe can’t have but can still ceaselessly long for. Donghyuk will never love him back. He knows that. But in these moments of intimacy, unapologetically wrecking each other in the dark, Junhwe can indulge in the rapture of his deepest reveries. He can believe there is something, someone, there. In his arms.

       That is until Donghyuk leaves, again, lifting foul dust off the floorboards as he shuts the door behind him. Two white lights of the Buick only getting fainter from Junhwe’s window until it disappears entirely.

       Almost as if it never were.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing this absolutely killed me... but I enjoyed the pain at (almost) every word.
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know your thoughts ! If you have any questions about this (such as what the heckin hell actually happened) feel free to ask!! I'll be more than happy to explain.


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